


Here We Are, We're All Right

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, PWP, Post-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: As the rest of Arkadia celebrates the completion of the first permanent settlement house, Bellamy and Clarke sneak away for some time alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this for Bellarke Week 2016 on tumblr (for Day 4, Smut) but then I got this cold/flu thing and had to abandon it for a while, whoops. It was also originally supposed to be a trilogy of interconnected stand-alone ficlets, but I currently have no plans to write the other two.
> 
> Takes place either way in the post-S3 future, when the apocalypse 2.0 threat has been dealt with, or in some alternate-canon-verse-universe where the S3 finale happened differently. 
> 
> The title is from U.S. by Two Tongues.

The night the roof is placed on the first house of the permanent settlement, the citizens of the new Arkadia throw a party, the sounds of which—music and voices and laughter—waft out far into the forest, like ghost sounds getting caught in the branches of the trees. Clarke’s not drunk but she’s a little tipsy. Tree roots surprise her, but don’t frighten her: she jumps over one at the last minute, giggles as she half-stumbles back down to the ground, swats away the overhanging branches of a green-leaf-heavy tree.

Bellamy squeezes her hand. “You okay?”

“ _Yes_. Are _you_?”

He gives her hand a little tug, until she trips forward with _unbelievable_ grace and then her chest is pressed against his chest, and she’s looking up at him, close enough to see his dark eyes in the dusk-gloom (autumn’s coming: the air’s still warm and thick and it presses in around them, the sort of air you can _feel_ —but the days are starting to shorten, the dark starting to creep in at early hours), the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course I am.”

A loud shout, jubilant, exultant, reaches them. She opens her mouth to say they should head out farther, get a little more distance just to be safe, but Bellamy has an arm around her waist, curling all the way around her, reminding her that she’s _his_ ; she drops his hand so she can curl both her hands in his shirt: he’s _hers_. She can feel his breath against her lips. She can feel his lungs expand, can feel his heartbeat; the warmth of his body is the warmth of hers. And even when she closes her eyes, she knows he’s still watching her.

His nose bumps against hers.

His lips brush against hers.

The kiss is soft for only a moment, before she’s shoving him back over uneven ground, walking them further into the woods until his back hits a thick, old tree trunk, and he huffs out a surprised breath into her mouth. Clarke drapes her arms over his shoulders, feels the rough bark scraping against her fingertips. She can feel one of Bellamy’s hands on her hip, like he’s steadying her—she was a bit unsteady, there, just for a moment—the other rests against her neck, angles their kiss into something deeper, slower, something to get lost in. Everything else fades, becomes the thinnest of background sensations, of nothingness, everything but him: his body, solid and real against hers; his touch, decisive and possessive and aching; the smell of him, the taste of him.

This isn’t the first time she’s felt Bellamy all but sweeping her off her feet. But every time is a bit like the first time; every time feels like finding a home she long thought was no more than a fantasy or a dream.

They slide down to the ground; she’s in his lap, limbs tangled up with his limbs, losing herself. Her head tilted back, she’s afraid to open her eyes, knows that seeing the tree branches stretched like cobwebs across the dusk-gray sky will make her dizzy. And his kisses against her neck already make her dizzy. Gentle kisses, lingering against each spot of skin as he traces a line down, down, and she’s murmuring his name again and again, “Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy,” until the syllables slur, like she’s casting a spell, like she’s calling for him but he’s _here_ , and nothing’s ever felt so real than his hand splayed out against her back, tugging her in.

What she would not do for him, to protect him.

“Clarke,” he murmurs, his voice so gruff and low her name sounds of a piece with the ground and roots and rocks and leaves themselves, and kisses her again.

She is so deeply a part of the ground, her home that called to her for years, her battlefield and her eventual resting place, and yet so distant from it, caught up in him until she leaves herself, and yet more present to herself than she has ever been, because of him. He surrounds her. And she needs him closer. Hands grasp for him, pull at his collar, fist in his shirt. His palms find her hips, trace her curves; he’s slotting her against him, finding all of the ways that they _fit_ , each piece of her yearning for the matching piece of him.

What matters is the way the dark red hollows of his mouth taste. What matters: the swipe of his tongue into her mouth, persistent, searching.

Each so quiet the sounds of the woods themselves amplify, the sounds of the air, the faintest echo-laughter and echo-singing wafting to them still. And when he tilts her back, swift secure movement so her whole world tips even though she never leaves the safe circle of his arms, she yelps, a short bright noise between long kiss and deep kiss, and then laughs like a staggered _oh_ as her back settles against the dirt and stray leaves, the edge of an ancient tree root.

She looks up, watches him blink at her in the dim twilight. Then slowly reaches out to trace her fingertip down his nose, up over the curve of his eyebrow, around his ear. “You okay?” Bellamy asks her, fond, curious, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Yeah.” She breathes out the word, like relief, like reassurance in an aftermath, and wiggles around again to feel the cool of the earth, a contrast to the warmth of the waning-summer air. She spreads her legs and Bellamy settles between them. He rests his palm against her cheek, so gently that it makes her feel, just for a moment, like a fragile thing, and she twists just enough to sneak a kiss against the heel of his hand.

Then Clarke pulls him down, heavy weight on top of her, because she wants him, sharp spiking clawing _desire_ even in the tender pause. His mouth forms a trail of kisses down her jaw, warm rough calloused hand sliding up under her shirt, against her skin, and she’s mouthing words before she thinks to speak, words first inaudible, then a building hum, a plea.

“Bellamy—want you inside me—now.”

She presses her hips up, anchors herself with fingers through his belt loops, feels the friction of body pressed harsh against body, not wanting to let go.

And he echoes: “Want to be inside you now.”

The ground is hard, bumpy, and unforgiving, has never been forgiving, but they do what they can: he arranges their jackets beneath her as she shoves off her shoes, shimmies out of her pants and underwear, and then he’s resting on top of her again, settled over her again. Kisses searching out the most sensitive spots on her neck again. Filling every crevice of her thoughts again with _I’ve finally found you_ desire and _it’s you it’s you_ need. The outlines of the muscles of his arms and back redefine safety, and the flutter of his fingers between her legs, sliding into the slick wet of her, thumb circling just so against her clit, rewrite what it means to be _home_.

When he is inside of her at last—stretching her at first, as she scrapes her teeth against his chin, finds his mouth, bites at his lip—then filling her, all of her—she does not feel, she would not say she is, _complete_ , but that she has become something so much more than herself. She is entirely herself and beyond herself. What is excess has been stripped away. No room for myths and legends as she wraps her leg around his waist. No space for titles, for expectations, when he half-lifts her, arms around her, fits her body to his body as she matches her rhythm to his rhythm, and they breathe each other’s air, and the exhale-murmurs of each other’s names become another forest-sound in the quiet, deepening dusk.

Eventually, they will part. Catch their breath. Brush the dirt off their clothes, count the scratches on their skin. Bellamy will pull her close, and she will feel him kissing into her hair, and hear a low murmur of unintelligible words. And Clarke will hold him close with her arms around his waist, and she’ll delay asking the question that she knows is floating up to the surface of his thoughts too: _Are you ready to go back?_ The night will be fully settled around them, and they will have to pick their way carefully over tree roots and rocks, fingers twined between fingers, warm palm against warm palm. Maybe someone will ask where they have been. Maybe their absence will be unnoticed or ignored. They’ll stop outside the first real settlement house, sturdy and strong, surrounded by their tents and makeshift cabins, juxtaposed against the star-dotted sky where, strangers to each other, they lived out their childhoods without ever knowing home. And they will understand some new version of home.

But that is later. Now she is only her body, and everything but her body; she is herself, and she is him, and he is her. And she clings to him as if the world itself were tilting too sharply on its axis, as if to let go were to fall, were to never stop falling, and he her only constant, her final redemption at last.


End file.
